


Death Follows

by CrowKing



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Angst, Character Death, Death is a character, F/M, Not a happy fic at all, One Shot, Ramsay is His Own Warning, Suicide, Suicide mention, pretty depressing actually
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-05
Updated: 2018-05-05
Packaged: 2019-05-02 17:01:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,427
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14549262
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CrowKing/pseuds/CrowKing
Summary: In a world where death is not only inevitable, but a constant, you, a lady of the north, are stuck between the two most powerful bastards that Death has known.  Death follows each of your paths as they tangle together and fall apart.





	Death Follows

**Author's Note:**

> Not going to lie. I'm in a bad mental space lately, and writing this was only an expression of that. To those who are sensitive to death and suicide, please do not go further and read another fic.

Death follows him like a shadow. It’s an angry, little boy that plays and twitches. It has happy fingers that drags knives across skin like a paintbrush hurting a canvas. It has blue eyes that light up when it hears the words ‘sorry’, ‘don’t’, and ‘please’. Especially please. 

Death made itself known to Ramsay when he killed his first rabbit with his own hands. Air left the rabbit’s lungs and it gave Ramsay such a rush. He discovered power. He crushed bugs beneath his feet with glee. Kitchen rodents didn’t survive long in his mother’s home. Even other children around him learned that Death followed Ramsay closely with a sinister smile and a flaying knife in hand.

Death became Ramsay’s close friend, whispering instructions in his ear as he tortured his enemies in front of him. Blood trickled down their chests. Their hands twitched and moved against the tight ropes. His victim’s hearts beat as loud as war drums which Death considered to be music to its ears. 

Ramsay cut, lied, and kept Death close as he finally became his father’s heir. Death kneeled along with him when he received the title. Of course, Ramsay took all the credit for the hard work. Death only was a spectator, enjoying the show Ramsay presented to him.

Ramsay discovered you along his way to power. He found you among all the red and broken bones he made. His own heart skipped a beat as he fantasized how loud you could scream. Your eyes seemed so lost and sad all the time. He’d hurt soldiers and even killed a servant to know your name.

Death smiled. “You’re not alone. Death follows her as well.”

Ramsay touched you. He grabbed at your wrists and dragged you to his dungeons. You kicked and screamed, but everyone knew the truth. You weren’t coming back.

Historians would say Ramsay was misunderstood. That Ramsay was a product of his ancestor’s traditions and blood. That the Red King’s angry blood and murderous eyes made Ramsay what he is. Historians would say that this was just how it was during that time.

Historians would claim that Ramsay loved you.

Your eyes were empty. Your body was toyed with. Your soul had left you long ago. Ramsay’s other lovers couldn’t claim the same. Myranda laughed manically. Others had died. You were left somewhere in between, wondering if you were half-mad or half-dead. 

Death followed Ramsay into the Battle of the Bastards where wildings, Night’s Watchmen, and horses were slaughtered. Death laughed at Ramsay’s own men thinking they were fools into following a madman into battle. Death’s smile only grew each second an innocent man gave his life for Winterfell.  
Death followed Ramsay into the kennel. He watched as Ramsay’s own dogs ate him piece by piece until there was nothing left but the guts and bones of a dead house.

Death followed Jon Snow like a shadow. Since the day his mother bled out onto the white bedsheets. His uncle holding him tight and riding back to the cold north, swearing the same words over and over again. ‘Promise me, Ned.’ were the first words Jon heard. Death followed Jon like an old, wise man with a cane. His vision was leaving him only to be replaced with cataracts. Its hands were wrinkled. Its hunched back was covered with furs.

Death followed Jon throughout his own childhood. As he played with his siblings, Death sat and wondered whether Jon would ever know who he really was. Death watched Jon grow up before his eyes, thinking he was some type of hero. The way Jon swung his sword and defended himself. The way Jon always kept humble, and always obeyed Lady Catelyn’s hateful commands. 

Death guided Jon through the gates of the Night’s Watch and watched Jon fight his way through attacks, sneers, and threats. He hoped Jon would be their leader. Death prayed to the old gods for luck because faith was a small commodity in the north. 

Death followed Jon with every hard choice he made. He watched in horror and awe as Jon cut through wildings, his own men, and white walkers. Death frowned at the trail of blood Jon left behind. The trail became longer and harder to follow with every step they took. Jon was getting better at swinging his sword.

Death was scared of Jon Snow.

Death followed Jon into the Battle of Bastards. He couldn’t run with him into battle but he watched. Every man gave their life willingly. Every man believe in the hero Jon could be. Every man saw with their own eyes that Jon came back from the dead as if Death was an easy enemy to beat.

Historians would say that Jon Snow was a warrior forged in ice. They would claim that every time Jon swung his sword that three men would die. Jon’s swords would be displayed in museums behind glass cases with plagues with their names. Historians would say Jon fought too long and too hard. Historians claimed he fought for who he loved.

Historians would claim that Jon loved you.

Jon met you sometime when he truly discovered girls. Of course, girls adored Robb. You didn’t exactly adore Robb, but you favored Jon. You were a Lady in your northern house. Jon’s heart skipped a beat when you smiled at him. He let himself fantasize you and him in your castle. He didn’t exactly what power. He only wanted to be wanted.

Death frowned. “Be careful, Jon. Death follows her too.”

But Jon didn’t want a warning. Jon only wanted you. He kissed you softly and called you his. But then he left. He left for the Night’s Watch and you knew he wasn’t coming back.

Your eyes were empty. Your heart was toyed with. Your ladies-in-waiting heard that Jon had loved another. A red-haired wilding that broke Jon’s vows. You figured you would move on. You hoped that you would. Your mother pleaded you to go to Winterfell to get favor from the new lords. 

You see, Death followed you like a shadow. It took your father from you as the Mad King’s men got to them before they could get home. It took your younger brother from you as sickness wrapped itself around him like a snake. It took your aunt from you and you wondered how many more would die before spring would come.

Death made you watch as Winterfell fell into shambles and you cried your eyes out thinking of your dearest Sansa and your wild Arya. Some days you prayed to the gods that Sansa would be okay. Other days you hoped Arya was dead because death sounded so much better than Cersei’s hands around her neck.

Death watched you step into Winterfell again. Death watched you meet Ramsay. Death watched as Ramsay twisted and hurt and touched you, and Death did nothing. 

Death watched you kiss Jon and laugh with him. Death observed every tender moment you two shared. Death let Jon slip through your fingers, and still Death did nothing. 

You saw the numbers. You watched traitorous lords swear their men and cause to Ramsay. These men served alongside your father and now they served with a monster. There was no way Jon could win. Jon would lose this battle, and you would be stuck here.

Ramsay’s other lovers died in awful ways. Myranda was pushed to the ground with her skull cracked open like an egg. And Death watched you. 

Ramsay awoke that morning giving you one last kiss, and part of you wondered if he actually loved you or not. You stood carefully on a stool. The rope creaked and it fit snug around your neck. You looked to Death. You remembered watching your brother die. You saw what Ramsay did to other people. You remembered how Jon broke you. You started to sob and you spoke to Death.

“I am coming.”

Historians would claim you were kind. Other historians would say you were mad. Some artists would try to grab your likeness and paint you. Historians fought about you. They said you had always been a sad girl. Other said sadness found you later in life. One thing was agreed on. 

Jon ran through the halls of Winterfell to save you after Sansa told him where you were. Jon found you. You swung from a rope on a ceiling to and fro. Death was not there. Death had left with you. Death followed you into the afterlife like a patient friend, holding your hand.

**Author's Note:**

> If you wish to read more of my works, please visit [ https://crowkingwrites.tumblr.com/ ] Any comments, questions, or concerns are welcomed and taken seriously.


End file.
